The clicking of key board keys

Coincides with the tick-tock of the clock

Hanging ominously upon the wall.

 

The clock itself is plain, yet classy.

Though it is overpriced.

After all, who wants to pay

Anything to know

The reaper is coming closer

Checking names off her list.

 

Still, for how it mocks me I worship it.

For its power is chillingly beautiful.

 

It’s hands push me to seek out

Each moment that makes me forget

Time is even moving at all,

Which subsequently leads  me to the

Few occasions where an instant is frozen,

Replicated, stored in my mind,

And never forgotten.

 

It scolds me when I fail,

When I let my day pass,

Not knowing what could have been.

Subsequently punishing me when

I have work twice as hard to catch up.

 

Sadly, I have not caught up yet.

And I have never met someone who has.

 

Unlike us, clocks never stop.

They can be made to stop by humans,

But the blood in their veins is god like,

And it creeps steadily, smiling eerily,

Hauntingly beautiful in its movements.

 

And I’m sure it laughs at a pitch we can’t hear,

Because it sees us waste away so much of life,

Graciously bestowing gifts upon those who have learned their

Days are numbered, for they see the world in

Ways we could only dream.

 

Senses combining their talents,

Taste as colors in sight,

Scents like streams of water in sound.